Believe Me
by fakeditfromthewordgo
Summary: Eight ways Dean tells Jo he loves her. Or, the seven times he attempts to, and the one time he succeeds. Fluff overload.


The first time he says it, it's an accident. It was a hard day, and he's blurring the edges of it in a seedy bar, downing shots of whiskey and ignoring his brother's loud sighs and disapproving looks._ Fuck it_, Dean thinks, eyeing up a brunette girl with an enticing smile, and breasts that practically brushed her chin. If he was going to work hard, he deserved some kind of reward, and it just so happened that this was what it would be. So he strides away from Sam, whose face is soon covered by his large hands, and gives that brunette a wink, a half-grin as he orders another shot.

"Hello, handsome," is accompanied by an arm slinging around his neck, a sharply sweet scent clouding his nose, a smile too big, too fake. That's all it takes for him to stumble out of the bar, his arms a tight circle around the girl's - Jenny? Gemma? Genevieve? - waist as she whispers things into his ear that do nothing, but Dean pretends it does, pretends he feels his heart pumping as she fumbles with the lock on the door to a small apartment.

Clothes shed, Dean wastes the night with make-believe feelings of ecstasy, a roughness that suggests a job rather than pleasure, and a girl he won't remember in the morning. Throughout it all, he feels nothing. He might as well be a freaking angel, and not in the biblical sense.

Frustrated, he leaves as soon as her breaths turn heavy, not even having made an effort at pretending to hold her. She sighs slightly as his weight is lifted from the bed, reaching out and finding only pillow. Seeing this, Dean's eyes narrow, and shuts the door behind him softer than he usually would.

Outside, even though the air is cold, his mind is still dizzy. He can't go back to Sam yet, he's painfully aware of that even in his drunken state, and instead situates himself on the edge of a pavement in a place he doesn't know.

It's without thought that he takes his phone out, scrolling through the contacts nonchalantly. He doesn't hesitate as he stops on one, pressing call, no thinking involved as he listens to the voice mail.

"Hey, Jo," he says, voice slurring. "I miss you. I said I'd call you, so I am." His voice is gruff, and he kicks at the ground. Truth be told, his promised phone call had been on his mind every day since, his fingers always hovering over the button. He always gave up at the last moment, because it wasn't his place to dump his burdens on anyone, least of all Joanna Harvelle. "I... I _really _miss you. No better place to get drunk than the Harvelle Roadhouse." He laughs to himself. "Come hunt with us. Fuck Ellen." This is where Jo, listening to the message, would do a double take at her phone, now _knowing_ he's drunk (as opposed to thinking it) before pressing the phone back to her ear, not wanting to miss a word he said. "We're great hunters, me and Sammy. We got you." He pauses for a moment. "I love you."

The beep sounds, telling him he's out of time, and he pushes himself up, deciding if he walks back to the motel that'll give Sam plenty of time to give his empty bed the cold shoulder. When he does trudge in at around eight in the morning, he throws himself down on his bed, falling asleep almost instantly. Rolling his eyes, his brother can't help but smile slightly at Dean's dishevelled form.

When he wakes up, all he can remember is the last three words of that phone call, the rest of it a mess of meaningless words tangled together illegibly in his mind. He can't shake the heavy shame that settles in his stomach, and he can't stop constantly checking his phone (much to Sam's amusement), wondering what she's thinking. She never does get back to him, and Dean can't think of that night without cringing.

The second time, it's a little more appropriate, but it still surprises him. They're staying at the Roadhouse after a successful hunt, the atmosphere is light and surprisingly not alcohol flushed. Bobby's been staying there for a few days prior to their stopping (though he ignores the raised eyebrows Sam and Dean send him, the quick looks back and forward between him and Ellen), and with the five of them there together, gathered round a table playing cards, Dean feels like maybe he could have a family.

Jo's opposite him, and because the table's not particularly large, their knees keep brushing together, sending electric sparks rushing through his body. It's shocking, and Dean jumps every time; it's the most he's felt in months. After the disastrous phone call six months ago, he still doesn't know what Jo is.

The way she's acting now isn't helping, either. It's not that she's being seductive towards him - in fact, it's the exact opposite. When she smiles at him, she might as well be smiling at Sam, her words spoken to him in the way that she would to a friend she doesn't really talk to very often. It's frustrating him, and despite the happiness of everyone else, Dean slowly grows surlier as the night goes on.

When she can't stop laughing at a comment Bobby makes, Dean decides he's had enough, and makes his way to the kitchen to get a much-needed beer, or five. He takes his time, trying to clear his head of the way she grins, the little sarcastic comments she makes, her fingers twirling her knife underneath the table and her eyes darting to Ellen every five seconds to check she hasn't noticed. His head is clouded with Jo, and he kind of wants to slap himself.

As he makes to leave, she tries to go in, and their bodies brush as they manoeuvre around each other, and that's it. Dean grabs her, crushing his lips to her, pressing her back against the door. After an initial noise of surprise, Jo responds to the kiss, hands gripping Dean's hair as he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him. It's all lips and tongue, desperate and needy, hard and unyielding, and it just might be the most satisfying thing that Dean's ever done.

I love you, he breaths into her mouth, and he's taken aback by how much he means it in that moment. Instantly, his mind starts backtracking, because Dean doesn't do love, least of all with mouthy female hunters with mothers that could rip him to pieces.

Jo ends the kiss, leaning her forehead against his. "Did you say something?" She's slightly breathless, and Dean decides it's one of the best sounds in the world.

"No," he replies, voice deep; he has a feeling she knows exactly what he said. Nodding, Jo slips out of his grasp, running a hand through her hair a little shakily. Dean leans against the wall next to door under the facade of waiting for her, but really his knees are just a tiny bit weak.

"I, um," she says, while pouring a drink of water, "I don't do this."

Pushing aside the temptation to enquire as to the definition of 'this', Dean just makes a face and holds the door open for her, following her out. He's fairly sure 'this' is random hookups, and Dean wants to tell her that's not what he wants from her.

She doesn't mention the phone call.

It's different, the third time.

When she opens the door to him, she looks confused. "What are you doing here?"

Dean winces awkwardly, holding out the flowers and chocolate Sam had said she'd like.

"Thank you?" She takes them, looks from one to the other, then back to Dean, her eyes a little softer. "Is everything okay?"

He considers for a moment before nodding. "You need to change."

"Fine," she says, and Dean doesn't know if it's irritating or endearing that she takes everything as a challenge. "Are you ever going to answer my questions?"

"I am answering your questions," Dean replies easily, sliding into the hallway. "Go change. Please."

Eyeing his suit, Jo throws her hands up in exasperation and walks off. Grimacing, Dean tugs at his collar. A few months after the kiss, when he still couldn't stop thinking about her, he'd stupidly asked his practically female brother what to do, and had a few romantic comedies thrown in his face. He'd watched them all with an identical bemused expression, and realised that the teddy bear seemed to be the key. Sam had laughed, and told him to just take her to a nice restaurant, and tell her how he felt.

So that was exactly what he was doing. Except he was so nervous that when Jo finally emerged in a long top with leggings (the extent of her feminine clothes, and she'd only agreed to buying them because she could still move easily), instead of telling her how nice he thought she looked, he just nods, and strides out of the door. Hesitating for a moment, Jo rolls her eyes and grabs her knife before following him, sheathing it in her boot.

Likewise, Dean stows a gun in his side pocket as he gets out of the car. They make quite a pair, Jo can't help but think with a smile.

"Wait there," he says to Jo, who raises her eyebrows. Dean ignored her, knowing this part was crucial. After checking the coast's clear, he walks around the car, and opens Jo's door for her.

She looks up at him, amused. "Was that _really _necessary?"

"Yes," Dean says simply, but he's smiling as she slips her hand into his.

Once seated, the conversation doesn't exactly flow. They're surrounded by rich older couples in dresses and suits, and the lighting is too dark for them to scan the place every ten seconds. Dean keeps pulling on his collar and clearing his throat, and after the millionth time, Jo reaches out and stills his hands with her own.

"Stop it," she says, and he scowls at her.

"It's too hot in here," he tries to explain it away, but Jo just laughs at him.

She sits back in her chair, brushing her hair away from her face (Dean can't help but notice how the way it catches the light makes it shine). "What's this all about?" Dean opens his mouth, but Jo stops him. "Don't give me any more bull. _Seriously_."

"I, uh..." _I can't get you out of my head. I can't stop thinking about you. I think I might be in love with you. _He's struck by the same awe at how easily his mind grasped at those words, _that_ word, but even more so at the fact that he thinks he might be starting to believe it. "You know what? You're right. It's stupid." He stands up. "Come on." She does so gratefully, and Dean tries to ignore that the second thing she does is reach for his hand (after checking her knife).

They spend the rest of the night on the hood of Dean's car, making fun of each other, pushing each other off, exchanging stories about hunts and Ellen. Jo laughs so hard at the teddy she cries, and Dean blushes a fierce red, folding his arms and acting surly until she kisses the scowl from his face.

The fourth time he says it he means it.

He hadn't expected Sam to leave him in a motel by himself, in favour of going to question some suspect, even though it was late. He _had_ expected himself to call Jo, fill her in on the situation, but he hadn't planned on telling her that he was about an hour away.

The phone calls were becoming more and more frequent, a way of checking she was okay, de-stressing, and hearing her voice all in one. Though neither of them would admit it, they both hoped every night that their phones would ring, both checking them somewhat incessantly.

When he opens the door to her, he groans. She laughs as he reached out to her, allowing him to wrap her in his arms as he kicks the door shut behind them.

"Your mother," he says, releasing her, "is going to _kill_ me."

Jo shrugs, throwing herself down on the sofa Dean had just vacated. "She's out." Her brow furrows slightly. "Hunting."

"Oh," Dean replies evenly, sinking down beside her. Jo reaches across him for the remote, and he smacks her arm away. "My room, my TV."

"Is that a challenge?"

Five minutes of wrestling later, they're both lying side by side on the floor, laughing breathlessly, both of them with one hand clutching the remote still. Dean yawns, and Jo scowls at him.

"Are you sleeping?" Dean shrugs evasively, and Jo rises, kicks at his side, goes and lies on his bed. "Sleep. Now."

Grumbling, Dean follows suit. "What are you, my mother?"

"Shut up."

Dean settles down beside her, and after a few minutes of awkwardly lying beside her, pulls her against him, wrapping one arm around her waist. Neither of them have really broached the issue of what they were, but Jo doesn't pull away, so Dean allows himself to relax.

Ironically, it's Jo's breaths that slow first, her head heavy on Dean's chest, one arm thrown across his stomach carelessly. Dean smiles, pressing a kiss into her hair, thinking how nice it would be to fall asleep like this every night. He's struck by a sudden longing, and his face is solemn as he whispers.

"I love you."

The fifth time, both of them are conscious. Hyper-conscious, in fact.

Jo had (somewhat) convinced Ellen that she was fully capable of hunting, and if she was going to do it at all, it was better that she did so with the two best hunters in the world. Sam had supported her, while Dean glared at everyone and refused to contribute either way. He didn't want her along, because he'd spend every second worrying about her, fully capable or not, but if he said so she wouldn't talk to him for God knows how long. In the end, Ellen had made her promise that she'd call every night, and given Sam and Dean the darkest looks she could.

It was the ghost of a woman that had cheated on her boyfriend, and had been brutally murdered with a brick by said boyfriend, and so had been recreating her death on women who had affairs. Jo had been surprisingly good, along with Sam, at convincing the family that they needed to leave the house for the night, at least. She'd ruined the glimpse at her sweet side by punching Dean in the gut at the sight of his raised eyebrows.

Now, they'd sent Sam to do the saltin' and burnin' while they kept tabs on the house. Though both of them had secretly wanted to stick together, they'd ended up separating, Dean taking the ground level while Jo patrolled the second floor. It was quiet work, but occasionally one of them would shout a sarcastic comment to the other, and that kept things bearable.

At least, things are quiet until the ghost appears behind Dean, who's completely unaware, and slams him to the ground. He shouts out as a brick materialises in her hands, her face contorted into an ugly snarl, but he can't even hear Jo's footsteps. As the woman bends her arm back, clearly savouring the moment, an iron bar cuts through her ethereal form, her disappearing act accompanied with a spark. A minute later, they hear the awful screeching that accompanies Sam's success.

Dean looks up from his position on the floor, panting hard, his eyes on Jo, who looks entirely too victorious and generally proud of herself considering he almost died.

"I love you," he breathes heavily. Jo raises her eyebrows, a blush appearing on her cheeks. Dean, the realisation of what he said hitting him, tries to cover quickly. "When you, you know, save my life."

"Sure," Jo replies, rolling her eyes as she extends a hand to help him up. She can't hide the fact that her cheeks are still tinged pink, though, and the weight of her eyes are heavy on Dean for the rest of the night.

It's not even him that says it, the sixth time. Not in so many words, at least.

Sam and him are working on a case way on the other side of the country, and phones and laptops have been confiscated for the time being due to a recent brush with the (real) police. Dean's feeling the impact more than Sam, to the point where his grumpiness is becoming a problem.

"Why don't you write her a letter?" Sam finally suggests after Dean accidentally stabbed the knife all the way through his ready meal when piercing the film.

"Write who a letter?" He's being deliberately difficult, and Sam knows it. After a good minute-long bitch face, Dean sighs. "Letters are for girls."

"Fine," Sam replies shortly, getting up and walking out of the room.

Dean looks over his shoulder, slightly confused. "What's wrong, Sammy? You PMS-ing?" When there's no reply, Dean continues. "What? Did I offend your letter-writing set?" Silence. Dean shrugs to himself, turning the television.

Then card hits him square in the face, followed shortly by a pen. Pulling a face, Dean examines the projectiles to find a bunch of postcards.

When he looks up at Sam, his brother just smiles. "For when you fuck up the first one." He pauses. "And the second one, and the third on-"

"Alright, I get it," Dean flips him off, but he's kind of smiling. "Bitch," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"Jerk," Sam replies amiably, already tapping away at his laptop again.

A couple of days later, Jo gingerly picks up a screwed up postcard that's miserably appeared at their doorstep. When she straightens it out, the picture on the front is scored through from where the writer had pressed the pen too hard when crossing sentences out. Flipping it over, she discovers a post-it note covered with Sam's neat handwriting.

_Jo - _

_He misses you. He's fine. Found this screwed up in the motel bin. He pretty much just said he loves you, but he's a jackass and doesn't know how to deal with feelings. _

_Hope you and Ellen are well. _

_Sam._

Smiling massively, she peels off the post-it to reveal thick black lines where Dean's frustratedly crossed through his words over and over again. Only two remain - Jo, at the start, and Dean at the end. She pictures him writing it in a dimly lit motel, and him eventually giving up, and throwing it away.

She's in an oddly good mood for the rest of the day.

"Motherfucking _SON OF A BITCH_," Dean yells as loudly as he can, smashing his fist into the wall for extra effect.

Sam sighs. "Dean. Try to calm down," he gets up, throws the keys in his older brother's direction. "She'll be fine. We'll sort it out."

"I'm going to kill him," Dean mutters ominously as he slams his way out of the motel, leaving their stuff for Sam to grab. He throws a few hundred dollars at the clerk without looking, and sits drumming his fingers agitatedly on the impala's dashboard until Sam finally comes stumbling towards him, clutching their duffels. Without a word, Dean zooms away as soon as Sam's door is shut.

His driving is dangerous, bordering on suicidal, as he turns a two-day journey into a six-hour one. Throughout it all, Sam makes numerous attempts to talk to him, discuss tactics for when they get there, but Dean only hums unconvincingly, and eventually Sam gives up.

When they pull up at the Roadhouse, Dean jumps out, flipping the hood and throwing Sam a shotgun in the same movement. There's a silent agreement that Sam will go to Ellen, while Dean deals with Jo. Before Sam can ask his brother to at least _try_ not to do something stupid, he's kicking the door down.

"Jo?" he yells, edging into the bar. "Jo? Are you here?" There's no answer, and Dean swears, giving up all stealth as he runs in. There's a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach, as his initial search finds no one. Then there's a scratching from behind him, and there she is, tied up underneath the bar. Eyes wide, Dean scrambles to cut her ties, pulling her gag out. All he can feel is white-hot rage, that anyone would dare do this to the Harvelles, tinged with relief that _thank God she's okay. _

"You're okay," he says, running the back of his hand down the side of her face. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turns round and shouts. "Come get me, you son of a bitch."

As if on cue, the demon drops down from the ceiling, smirking. It's a woman, and somewhere in his mind Dean knows he recognises her, but he just doesn't care as he charges towards her, knocking her to the ground before she can even process a thought.

Pinned down, she stares up at him with hatred shining in her eyes as he hisses: "That's a message for all of you. Don't mess with Jo, or I swear to God I will kill every last one of you." Then he plunges the knife into her heart, picking himself up and flinging the dead body away distastefully.

"Dean," Jo says from behind him, her voice uncharacteristically small. He turns to her, and both of them move towards the other at the same time, her small form tucked into Dean's body as he strokes her hair with shaky hands.

"I love you," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

Jo just nods against him, deciding his ridiculous pessimism is to blame for this. He couldn't mean it, he just wasn't fond of the idea of her dying, and this was how his mouth chose to let it out.

A couple of days later Jo would tease him, saying she could've gotten out of it on her own, and Dean would refer to her as the Damsel just to piss her off (her eyes lit up when she was annoyed and it kind of hurt his head in a good way).

When he finally really truly means it, it's still not what he meant to say. They'd been officially together for a few months, after Ellen had eventually stepped in and told Dean personally that they were better off together, if demons were going to come looking for her in an attempt to get at him anyway. It was better that Jo was protected than not, and even though she was entirely capable of it in most situations, the two Winchesters might be a safer bet. Maybe.

So he'd kissed her, again and again and again, until they were both out of breath and seeing stars.

"If you run away again," Jo warned (though it wasn't too menacing, considering she was still melded against his body), "I will hunt you down, and kill you myself."

Dean smirked. "Good luck, sweetheart."

"Are you saying I _couldn't_ kick your ass?" And their relationship was off, all laughing arguments and sarcastic remarks and stolen kisses between, but it was okay, because they didn't have spark, they had fucking fireworks.

It's a totally mundane moment, really. They were out on a hunt, and, having gotten up earlier than both of them (as always), Sam had already gone down to his favourite place in the world, the library. Dean didn't even bother to finish reading the note before crumpling it and throwing it in the vague direction of the bin.

"Hey, jackass," Jo calls from the small kitchenette. Dean's used to her oh-so-affectionate nicknames for him, and even learns to appreciate them because he can hear the smile in her voice. "Coffee."

Loping over, he takes the steaming black coffee from her hands. Just the way he likes it. She smiles at him, all sleepy, and adorable, and that's when it hits him.

He doesn't think about it; doesn't add extra, unneeded words like 'I think' or 'I might'; doesn't sigh like he's admitting a burden, doesn't even hesitate. It's a little awkward and he clears his throat loudly beforehand, feeling some tingly feeling in his stomach that he's pretty sure makes him a big girl.

"I love you."

Jo's face lights up, even as she tries to play it cool, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I know."

**a/n - i haven't proofread this properly, so please excuse any mistakes. i'll probably get around to it eventually**


End file.
